


Peace When You Are Done

by saltyfirefly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Because It's Supernatural, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Emotional Sex, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not Really Character Death, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s14e20 Moriah, Self-Sacrificing Castiel (Supernatural), Supportive Sam Winchester, seriously all the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfirefly/pseuds/saltyfirefly
Summary: Castiel, sometimes Angel of the Lord, recounts the End of the World.---"I said once before that writers lie; as I write this now, about to wholeheartedly proclaim its truth, I understand the hypocrisy. You have no reason to believe me. That isn’t the point, though. The point is to say my piece. That’s the difference between a writer, like my father, and myself: I no longer have the desire to create, to construct beginnings or to orchestrate endings. I am content to be. I’ve made peace with my end. But I need it to be known."





	1. Above the Noise and Confusion

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely AO3 readers!  
Thank you for clicking on my fic. I've been theorizing ways for Supernatural to end, and somehow it snowballed into me writing it out. I've read...well, honestly, probably far too many fics on AO3, but it's given me the confidence to finally post something of my own. I hope you enjoy.  
Anyway, without further ado, here's my fic.  
(Fic title and chapter titles taken from "Carry On Wayward Son")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've made peace with my end. But I need it to be known.

* * *

**** **Prologue**

Of all the ways I expected the world to end, this certainly wasn’t it. Truthfully, I gave up on my father actually being a father some time ago (or at least, it would be that way from a human perspective). I lost faith in him for the first time during the Apocalypse, take one, as a good friend of mine would call it. I truly believed that he had given up on us, and that the fate of the world was up to the so-called “Team Free Will," and later, "Team Free Will 2.0."

It wasn’t until I caused the rest of my brethren to Fall that I gave up on him as well, at least in terms of being a parent. When he came back and offered an apology to my older brother (but not to me, though I was there) for abandoning us, an inkling of my faith in him was restored. I began to believe again that he loved us, especially when it looked like he would end up dying for us, for the world. But then he left, again. I accepted his absence, and I maintained that small grain of faith. 

Then the worst came to be: I failed my family. The woman who accepted me as one of “her boys” died inadvertently at the hands of my son—for he _was_ my son, in practice if not by blood—and I was devastated, not only by the loss but by how inadequately I had protected my makeshift family. And then my father returned, once again, and I thought it was to make things right. I thought that he would restore my son’s soul, and our family could be a family again, even if it wouldn’t be whole. I was wrong. 

As it turned out, we were nothing but characters in a story to my father. We were his playthings. Everything we had believed was a lie. Once again, we were lost. I had known grief before, and loss, but none of it compared to this. Yet a small part of it was a blessing, for now we truly could have agency. Free will. There was no one behind the scenes, pulling the strings, shaping our path, guiding us for right or for wrong. Yes, we were lost, but for the very first time, we could find ourselves of our own volition. 

I said once before that writers lie; as I write this now, about to wholeheartedly proclaim its truth, I understand the hypocrisy. You have no reason to believe me. In fact, if I am successful, nothing I can tell you will serve to prove myself. That isn’t the point, though. The point is to say my piece. Not to tell you a story. Not to seek redemption. Not even to make you understand, no matter how much I may want you to know. No, I tell you all of this because it needs to be said. That’s the difference between a writer, like my father, and myself: I no longer have the desire to create, to construct beginnings or to orchestrate endings. I am content to be. I’ve made peace with my end. But I need it to be known.

* * *


	2. Beyond This Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were in the bunker’s library, Sam researching, Dean nursing a finger of bourbon, and I, frankly, staring off into space, before Dean repeated the question Sam had proposed all those weeks previously.
> 
> “So…what do we do now?” he said.

* * *

In the aftermath of my father’s—of Chuck’s—temper tantrum, of what Dean would eventually call a “weak-ass  _ Walking Dead _ impersonation,” instead of finding ourselves somewhere profound, we ended up, once again, in the Impala. For once, though, the car was filled with silence, no staticky click of a cassette tape loading, no Dean humming tunelessly along, no patter of his hands as he drummed along to the beat. Not even Sam attempted to fill the emptiness with a well-meaning attempt at making peace. His muteness couldn’t be blamed on the pain from his shoulder wound; as soon as the undead laid still upon the ground, I had attempted to heal him. My vessel and my grace were weak from the fight, but I doubt that even at full strength I could have healed him completely. I could, at least, ensure that all that remained was a charred circle on his skin, and the absence of physical pain. I think if I had made any attempts to heal Dean’s minor wounds from the battle, he would have refused to allow me.

A churlish part of me, the part that still remembered when I had been Fallen and fully human, was angry with him. Even if he hadn’t shot Jack in the end, I still disagreed with Dean’s decision to hunt him in the first place. I had to believe that Jack could have been saved, if he had lived. I had done too much damage of my own in the past to not hope that anyone could be redeemed. Deep down, I understood why Dean had chosen (and later refused) to kill Jack. I understood why he had first attempted to lock Jack away. I even understood why, back when we didn’t yet know Mary’s fate, Dean had said that I was dead to him. That didn’t mean I particularly liked any of his choices, which is why when neither Winchester was looking, I pocketed the gun Chuck had made. For an all-powerful being, he sure had difficulty with titles. “The Equalizer” sounded like a stupid name for a firearm to me, even with my natural distaste for the weapon. 

We ended up back in the Men of Letters bunker, wordlessly sitting at the kitchen table. I think all three of us were numb, for the same and yet also for our own reasons. Eventually, Sam broke the silence, with a troubled “What do we do now?” that echoed in the space around us. Dean didn’t even respond. I’m not entirely certain that his brother’s words even registered in his brain. I wanted to sit there stoically, just like Dean, but Sam was there, looking at me for guidance in the absence of his brother’s typical half-sarcastic, half-encouraging answer. So I fell back upon the default of the first coping mechanism I had learned from the Winchesters, after staunch denial: steady and deliberate intoxication. 

_ “I suggest we imbibe copious amounts of alcohol and wait for the inevitable blast wave,” _ I had once told a broken-hearted Dean and Bobby Singer, back during Apocalypse #1 when Sam had said ‘yes’ to Lucifer. The same advice had served us well enough when Jack died the first time, and I supposed it would serve us just as adequately this time. Much like the time I had found and entire liquor store and drank it, I doubted it would make any of us feel much better, but at least it might take the edge off for a while. 

Truthfully, I don’t entirely remember all of what happened next. I am vaguely aware of narrowly avoiding arrest for the robbery of several dozen bottles of whiskey, vodka, and tequila, while Dean whisked us and the Impala away from the scene of the crime. A semi-drunk Sam giggled helplessly in the back seat the whole time. The rest of the night, as well as most of the next day, is now, what they say, a complete blur. I am (unfortunately) acutely aware of the hangover that followed, both for myself and the Winchesters. Theirs lasted a day or so. I think mine lasted an entire week, though the pain of Jack’s death blended with my post-bender symptoms so well that I don’t know where one ended and the other began. 

Mental states aside, several weeks of non-stop hunting passed before we found ourselves with any downtime. “Downtime,” for the Winchesters, of course didn’t mean what it usually meant for humans. We were in the bunker’s library, Sam researching, Dean nursing a finger of bourbon, and I, frankly, staring off into space, before Dean repeated the question Sam had proposed all those weeks previously.

“So…what do we do now?” he said, still staring at his glass like it held the answers he sought. 

“You mean once we track down everything that busted out of Hell?” Sam asked, with barely a glance up from the dusty tome he’d buried himself in this time. 

“Do we, though?” Dean replied, which finally shook me out of my staring contest with the bookshelf opposite me.

“What do you mean?”

Dean looked a little shocked that I had asked him; since the showdown in the cemetery, we had barely spoken beyond what was necessary for hunts. 

“I mean, if the world is ending, why should we bother? Every foul thing we’ve ever put down, every creature that goes bump in the night, is back, and gunning for us. The odds of us making it out of this alive ain’t good.” 

“Don’t say that,” Sam said, with a fierceness I had only seen a handful of times before. “We’ve made it through every other ‘end of the world’ that’s been thrown at us. We can make it through this.” 

A part of me was loathe to agree with Dean, in one of his pessimistic moods, but I couldn’t help myself. “Yes, but Sam, every other time, Chuck has been behind us, forging a way for us to succeed. I don’t think he’s very keen on helping us this time.” 

“Cas is right,” Dean said, much to my surprise, and then he turned to me. “But you’re fooling yourself if you ever think he was completely on our side. He wouldn’t have put us through all this crap if he had been.” 

I sighed. I didn’t feel like arguing with Dean, especially not when I didn’t want to believe that he was right.

“You can’t seriously be giving up. Not after what you said to Chuck. Not after everything that happened with Jack, and with Mom,” Sam said, and with that we were suddenly acknowledging the proverbial elephant in the room, the one we had successfully avoided up until now.

What followed was perhaps one of our more heated, and nastiest, arguments. Anything and everything was fair game. The only thing that kept us there, I think, was that on some level, we were all afraid of what would come next, and none of us were willing to leave. Out of sheer determination from Sam, and exhaustion from Dean, the Winchesters finally agreed to keep fighting, to do whatever they could to save the world, just like they always had. 

_ "You know, saving people, hunting things...the family business."  _

It was then that I realized that I was a band apart from them. They had begun their fight together, and perhaps it was for the best that they ended their fight together as well. 

“Wait, Cas—where are you going?” Sam said, when I was already halfway through the war room. I kept my eyes fixed on the metal staircase ahead of me when I replied. 

“I’m returning to Heaven.”

“What? Why?” Sam asked, at the same time Dean said, “So you’re leaving us? Again?”

I forced myself to turn around and face them.

“Why, Cas?” Sam repeated, with an expression that Dean called Sam's "sad lost puppy" face. Unwittingly, it compelled me to speak. 

“I failed you. Both of you. Just like I failed Jack, and Kelly…and Mary.”

“No, Cas, you didn’t,” Sam tried to protest. 

“I did,” I cut in. “But my presence in Heaven would do good. I could protect the souls that reside there, like I couldn’t do for Jack.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Sam asked me, while Dean stared downward, resolutely not looking at me. Something in me snapped.

“When Jack lost his grace, and he died, you remember that I went to Heaven, to search for his soul?” I began. Sam nodded. “The Shadow, the entity that guards the Empty, came for him. It invaded Heaven. I found Jack, but before I got him out, the Shadow found us.”

“I don’t understand. Why would the Shadow of the Empty want Jack? He was human, at the time. The angelic part of him was gone,” Sam reasoned, so typical of him. But I was in no state to listen to reason.

“Because of me,” I said, and I continued, without realizing that my voice had risen in volume. “Because I woke the Shadow up. It wanted me to suffer. But I couldn’t let it take Jack, so I…I made a deal.” 

The end of my sentence came out as broken as I felt inside, but at least it was what finally made Dean tear his gaze away from the floor.

“Let me guess. You offered yourself instead?”

“Yes,” I said, with as much defiance as I could muster.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean swore, reflexively clenching his fists. 

“But Jack’s de—he’s gone, now, and there wasn’t any of his soul left. Wouldn’t he be in the Empty?” Sam theorized.

“Probably. But I don’t think that matters. My deal was for the Shadow to not take Jack then. It didn’t mention what would happen if Jack lost his soul.”

For a moment, both Winchesters were quiet. Then Sam asked, “How long do you have?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, truthfully, and for a moment I forgot that neither of the brothers knew the details of my arrangement until they fixed me with twin looks of confusion.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, almost accusatorially. 

“It wasn’t like a demon deal, where you're given a specific amount of time in exchange for what you want. The Empty said it would wait to come for me until I allowed myself to be truly happy. Only then would it take me,” I explained.

“And you accepted that? Cas, how could you do that to yourself? How could you do that to  us?” 

Dean shouted the words at me, and I knew they were said in grief, but I still couldn’t resist the barbed query that poured forth from my lips. 

“What does it matter to you, Dean? I thought I was dead to you.” 

The look on his face, of shock and anguish, didn’t satisfy me. I didn’t want to hurt him. I had never wanted to hurt him. But I also knew that if I left, Dean would be able to move on with his life. He always did. No matter what was thrown at him, he was always able to keep fighting. Dean had Sam; together they would find a way to keep going, to find peace, to find happiness. 

I turned on my heel, with a false determination to leave. If I left the Winchesters now, I had a pretty good chance of making sure my bill never came due. Of course I didn’t want the Empty to take me, but I wanted to keep hanging on for more than just self-preservation. If I were alive, albeit separated from the Winchesters, I could keep an eye on them from afar. I could still protect them. They could go and live out the rest of their lives, and I would help them, no matter what it cost me. 

Once their end came, and their souls ascended to Heaven, I could find them again. I could see them one last time, face to face, and explain everything. Then the Shadow could take me. It could have its revenge and I could pay my debt on my own terms. I thought it was a good plan. The one thing I didn’t count on, though, was the broken way Dean called after me as I tried to climb the stairs and leave for good. 

“Cas, please. I’m sorry,” he said. The words made me pause, for just a fraction of a second, and even though my back was to him, I knew he’d caught my hesitation. It was enough for him to come after me, catch me by the arm and spin me round to face him.

“Please,” Dean repeated. “We need you. I need you.” 

And with that, my resolve crumbled.

* * *


	3. Soaring Ever Higher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time, I reflected upon how when Dean allowed himself to express what he felt, he didn’t hold back a single drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags.

* * *

“Give us a minute, will you Sammy?”

By some miracle, or perhaps curse, Sam listened to his brother. Dean led me back into the heart of the bunker, and I followed without resistance. I had been told multiple times that the Winchesters were my one weakness. I had no right to deny it. Once Dean and I were safely hidden behind the door to his room, I expected anger at the very least. I thought he’d pin me against the wall and yell at me, and even though I outmatched his strength, I knew I would let him. I would give him whatever he thought he needed. Instead, though, Dean sank down onto his bed, forearms on knees, head bowed, looking more defeated than ever. The sight made me feel more helpless than his wrath ever could.

“Dean?” I asked, with half a step forward, unsure if he wanted me too close to him or not. After several seconds, he spoke.

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean said, almost too softly for me to catch. “I probably should be. But I don’t think I have any right to be, not when I did the same thing for Sammy once. I still gotta tell you some things, though.”

I nodded, prompting him to continue, though I had no idea if he saw me, given that his head was still facing the wall and not me.

“When Lucifer stabbed you in the back...When you died...it really messed me up. I mean, it _really_ messed me up. And I think I must have been looking for someone to blame, because I blamed it on the kid. Part of me believed your death was his fault. But it wasn’t, not really.”

Dean paused, like he was steeling himself for whatever he was going to say next. He kept his gaze away from me, but I could hear the tears in his eyes even if they hadn’t yet spilled over. When Dean kept speaking, his voice didn’t waver, but it was still thick with grief and guilt. 

“And then...when Jack killed Mom...all of that, when you died, came back to me. I just...cracked. I was afraid of losing someone else, and I guess that part of me wanted to push you away. It was wrong, I know that now. Hell, I knew it the second it came out of my mouth, but I couldn’t make myself apologize. It—everything—hurt too much.”

I didn’t realize I had gotten closer to Dean until I sat down next to him on the bed. My presence seemed to give him the courage to keep going, instead of making him shy away like I had feared.

“I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, I just thought you should know that I am. I’m so sorry, Cas. I shouldn’t have said that to you. And I should have tried to help Jack, like you did, like Sam wanted to, not kill him.”

“Dean,” I interrupted, resting one hand on his shoulder like I had done a thousand times before. “I understand. Even if I didn’t agree, I still understand. I forgive you.”

Finally, Dean snapped his head up. I, too, was somewhat surprised by my statement. Truthfully, I hadn't thought I ever could forgive him, but when I heard the sincerity of his apology, I had no choice. But I had loved Dean for so long, so unconditionally, so endlessly, that I couldn't stop now.

“I once told you that you had no faith; that you didn’t think you deserved to be saved. You were wrong then, and what you’re thinking now is wrong. You deserve to be forgiven, just as you deserve salvation. I’ve always believed that,” I said. “Dean, I’ve always believed in you."

"But what I did—you were pissed—you _should_ be pissed—"

"I was, Dean. And I don’t know if I will cease to be ‘pissed,’ as you put it, anytime in the immediate future. But I do know that I will forgive you. I always will. We’ve done such terrible things to one another, yet we still return, time and time again. There is nothing you could ever do that would prevent me from forgiving you. Not for forever.”

Sometime during my speech, I’d gripped his hand with my free one, and I squeezed it now, trying to emphasize what I’d said, and something in Dean gave way.

“Cas?” he said, more of a whisper than anything.

“Yes, Dean?” I asked. We were so close that I could count every freckle, catalogue every fleck of color in his irises, and every other cliché in literature. (Though they were irrelevant compared to Dean, in that moment, and in every other moment.)

“This is about ten or so years late,” he said, “but I’m really grateful you’re in my life. I know I’ve put you through a lot of crap, but it’s true. Cas, I lo—”

“Don’t say it. Please. If I think it’s what you’re about to say,” I interrupted. My heart fractured with the words.

“Wha—why?” he asked, perplexed, and (if I read him right) feeling a little betrayed. 

I couldn’t leave him like that. I had to explain.

“Hearing that you love me? Do you know how...how _happy_ I would be, if I heard you say that? When for so long I’ve felt the same way?” I confessed. 

“You—Oh. The Empty. I—I understand,” Dean said. 

He twisted his hand around so that our palms touched, and he twined his fingers through mine. Subconsciously, we both leaned in, until our foreheads rested together. My other hand curved up from his shoulder until it was wrapped behind his neck. I could have dug my fingers into the short tufts of his hair if I had been so bold. How long we stayed like that, I don’t know; time always did have this funny way of slowing down when I was with Dean.

“Hey Cas?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you to...to do something for me?”

“Of course,” I said, automatically, without thought or hesitation, for of course I meant it with every fibre of my being.

“You know how I used to bitch at you, for watching me when I slept?” Dean said. His breath ghosted over my face in soft puffs as he spoke, as gently as his words.

“I was watching over you, Dean,” I replied. I knew he had found it creepy, though I never did understand why.

“I know,” he said, with the hint of a chuckle. “I was hoping...you could do that tonight. I mean, until I fell asleep.”

The weight of his request hung in the scant space between us. Though my people skills were subpar, I had always been good at reading the Winchesters. I knew what he really meant. I knew it was a peace offering, yet still a way for things between us to remain unsaid.

“I would like that,” I replied.

Reluctantly, we pulled apart, and as Dean slipped his shoes off, I went to sit on the chair in the corner, and begin my vigil.

“No, Cas, not like that,” Dean said. I turned, head titled in confusion. 

Before I could ask for further clarification, he approached me, and with tentative hands, he gripped the lapels of my trench coat and began to push it off of me. I didn’t quite understand, but I slid my arms out of the coat and folded it carefully in half. I set it aside, on the very chair I had gone to sit on moments before. Dean peeled off his flannel shirt, and motioned with his head for me to remove my suit jacket as well.

When Dean stepped away and pulled off his belt, my heart began to race, out of uncertainty or something else, I wasn’t sure. But he simply tossed the article aside with his discarded flannel and laid down on the bed, one arm behind his head, legs crossed, in what I recognized as feigned casualness. I toed my shoes off and rounded the bed, lying stiffly on my back next to Dean. We were close enough to touch. Without commenting on our situation, Dean reached over and clicked the lamp off, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

“Good night, Cas,” he murmured.

“Good night, Dean,” I said, and turned my head in his direction.

I heard the bedsheets rustle as Dean rolled over, back to me, to lie on his side. I tried not to take it personally, though the action bewildered me; he had asked me to watch over him, had he not? But then Dean reached back, searching blindly for my hand, and I gave it to him without a second thought. He tugged, gently but determinedly, until I was pulled closer to him, arm wrapped around his waist until I was spooning him.

Within minutes, Dean’s breathing evened out, and he began to fall asleep. I took the opportunity of his relaxed state to press myself just a little closer, until I was nearly wrapped completely around him. The only clue I had that Dean noticed was a twitch of one corner of his mouth, like an aborted attempt of a smile. I suddenly felt the urge to lean in and place a kiss on his jaw, so I did. His stubble rasped against my lips, but I didn’t mind.

I leaned back against the pillow we were sharing, and tried to focus my thoughts on nothingness. As an angel, I of course had no need to sleep, but I had no desire to give into the burgeoning bubble of happiness in my chest. We still had issues; one night of cuddling wouldn’t fix that. Jack was still dead, there were still damned souls roaming the earth, and neither the Winchesters nor I knew what came next. We were without a script for the very first time.

A couple of hours after Dean fell asleep, I was in the middle of debating whether or not I should still leave the bunker, when there came a soft knock on the door. Dean didn’t stir, but I didn’t dare call out on the chance that it might wake him. I looked up at the creak of the door hinges when Sam pushed it open. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness, and they widened the moment he caught sight of us. I peered over at him, not bothering to conceal the mixture of melancholy and defiance on my face. To my surprise, Sam smiled, mouth turned up in a bittersweet contrast to the wetness of his eyes. He nodded, once, as if to show his understanding, or perhaps approval. Dean snored. The moment between me and Sam was broken, and he melted back into the hallway.

_This can’t last_, I told myself, though whether it was out of my own broken self-esteem or a desperate attempt to keep the Empty at bay, I didn’t know.

Come the morning, I still hadn’t left. Dean woke slowly, and without any external panic at having spent the night in my arms. He turned and allowed me to wrap my arms fully around him. For one glorious moment, he nuzzled his face into my neck, just under my chin. Too soon, he pulled away, face schooled into something cautiously neutral, though I knew he was lost in thought.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, and I nodded in silent confirmation that I wasn’t going anywhere.

Twenty minutes later, I began to doubt that Dean would return. Despite my earlier promise, I slipped out of bed and padded silently through the halls in stocking feet to find where Dean had gone. I heard his voice, coming from the library, before I saw him. Against my better judgement, I remained behind the door frame, within earshot but out of sight.

“Dean—" I heard Sam start, but the elder Winchester cut him off. The words poured out of him like some internal dam had broken, and he couldn’t stop the flow.

“I finally get the courage to tell him things, but then I can’t actually tell him because of how happy it would make him. And I can’t do that because I don’t want the damned Empty to come and get him. I just...I love him, Sammy. So damn much,” Dean said, his voice somehow strained and thick at the same time with the depth of his emotions. 

Not for the first time, I reflected upon how when Dean allowed himself to express what he felt, he didn’t hold back a single drop. If Dean hadn’t essentially admitted all of it the night before, I think his confession to Sam would have been my tipping point. I would have finally allowed myself to feel the fledgling joy buried deep inside me. I think I could have managed it, too, had Sam not said what he did next.

“I love him too, Dean,” he said, and then after a slight pause, as if he were unsure of his brother’s next reaction, Sam continued. “But I don’t think it’s in the same way. You love him like family, like I do, but to me, Cas is like a brother. With you, it’s something different. Something…more.”

My heart seized, torn between desire and dread at how Dean would respond. All at once my head was filled with _yes, please_, and _no, don’t_, warring violently against each other.

“You’re right,” Dean said. “And I think it’s been that way for a long time.”

He loved me. He _loved_ me. Dean had said it, and I couldn’t ignore it, not anymore, not now that I knew for certain that he felt the same way. Nothing else mattered in that moment: not Jack’s death or how it came to be, not the uncertainty of the future, nor my past failures.

I could tell, from the moment I stepped into the war room, that Sam knew I had overheard them, or enough of it, anyway. His eyes bulged, in a way that would have been comical had it been any other circumstance.

“Dean…” Sam said, spine straightening to his full height. 

Dean spun around, and I caught just the briefest glimpse of his face before I dashed up the steps to the library. He started to speak, but I couldn’t let him. Already I could feel my emotions spilling over. So I did the one thing, the only thing, I could think of in that moment: I took Dean’s face in my hands, pulled him close, and pressed my lips to his.

He didn’t return the kiss at first, but then Dean did, pouring all of himself into it. There was a hand in my hair and another around my waist, lips moving in tandem with mine, and the warmth of Dean’s body pressed against my form. Not for the first time, Dean pressed me up against a wall, but this time it was passion that drove him. Every touch of him sparked something within me, delight and pleasure and a thousand different emotions I had no name for, but relished in all the same.

The bubble in my chest finally burst, and for the most wondrous moment of my life, I felt like I was ensconced in pure sunlight. It filled me from my scalp down to my toes, growing brighter and hotter until suddenly I burned. I didn’t care; it was strangely magnificent. Then Dean pulled away, and I could see the fire echoed within his eyes, see the happiness breaking free. His smile was dazed, but so utterly content I felt it should have caused me to combust. The flames that ignited deep inside, however, were cold as ice.

“Cas, What was—?” Dean said, oblivious to my blood freezing.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not for the kiss but for what was soon to follow. I couldn't have helped it; his happiness was mine, and even if it had just been for a moment, I had allowed myself to feel. It was too late, now. I couldn't take it back.

“I had to do that at least once, before…”

And then he caught on. Or maybe it was the deep, inky black that had begun to consume me. It raged through me, spreading with every beat of my heart.

“No,” Dean breathed. “No, Cas, please—"

I tried to speak, but instead I collapsed, gasping for breath and choking on my own blood. Through the inferno in my veins, I could just barely feel the way he cradled me in his arms, chest pressed up against my back in a futile attempt to support me. Distantly, I was aware of Sam crouching down on the ground next to us, fruitlessly loosening my necktie in an attempt to help me breathe. A vague part of me wondered what Sam had thought of the kiss Dean and I had just shared.

“Cas, don’t die on me, man, not again. I’m begging you. Don’t you leave us. Don’t leave me, Cas, please,” Dean said, voice breaking. 

A single tear fell from his shining eyes onto my cheek. The sensation barely registered, with how rapidly my nerves were losing sensation. I knew my end was imminent; I wished for nothing more than to spend my last moments wrapped in Dean’s embrace, with Sam nearby, but they were too close, Dean especially, for what would come next. I couldn’t hurt them, not any more than I already had.

“Dean—“ I tried to say, but my voice was strangled by the blood that frothed over my parted lips. In the reflection of Dean’s irises, the blood almost looked black.

“We need you, Cas. Don’t go. I can’t lose you, not again,” Dean whispered. I tried, in vain, to push myself away, but my hand only fluttered uselessly against him.

After that, the only thing I knew was a bright flash of blue-white light, a sudden, sickeningly familiar searing heat that surrounded me, penetrated me down to the very marrow of my bones. I thought I heard Dean screaming, or maybe it was me, and then there was nothing. There was only Empty.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's SPN, so what's dead doesn't really stay dead. Sort of.


	4. Flew Too High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knew there were five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining…something, something. The typical Winchester stages of grief were denial, drinking, anger, followed by more drinking, and then doing something stupid. Dean decided to skip straight to the final step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, have some Dean-flavored angst!

* * *

_ The second time I was pulled into bottomless nothingness, I didn’t sleep. One instant I was in severe anguish, and the next, there was the absence of all sensation. I thought, at first, that my solitude was the first in a series of punishments that the Shadow of the Empty had in store for me. I wandered for what could have been eons, or microseconds, before the vacuum gave way to something with form. For me, time had ceased to exist, but for the Winchesters, back on Earth, the clock kept ticking. _

* * *

Someone groaned, gasping in pain like a wounded animal. 

“Dean? It’s okay, I’ve got you,” a voice said, hushed and soothing.

What were they talking about? He wasn’t in danger. Was he? Dean could feel heat pressing down on him, like a bad sunburn. How the _hell_ had he gotten a sunburn? And where? 

The last thing he remembered…but he couldn’t remember, not really. When he tried, it felt like someone was sticking a giant needle into his brain. The thing that moaned in pain earlier did it again, and Dean thought it sounded closer this time.

“Here,” the second voice said, and Dean felt something lift off him. 

Whatever it was must have been keeping the mysterious heat away, for when it left him, Dean thought that he surely must be on fire. The pain consumed him so thoroughly that he knew that it had to be very, very real. This was nothing like the pain that had been inflicted on him in Hell. Except someone was screaming, just like in the Pit, a drawn-out, soul-shattering scream. 

Something light and cool was placed on Dean’s skin, and the flames he felt subsided, as did the screams. It hit him that he must have been the one screaming. Only he had no conscious memory of deciding to scream, or awareness of himself when he did. 

* * *

When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing Dean saw was a shaggy head lying on the bed next to him. Dean blinked, not entirely sure that the thing wasn’t an animal, before whoever the head belonged to suddenly stirred and sat up. 

“Dean,” Sam breathed, the relief in his voice clear.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said, and his voice felt and raw and scratchy, as if he had been screaming for days. 

Sam helped him sit up, then mercifully handed him a glass of water. Dean drank the whole glass without pausing. He handed it back to Sam, then looked down and realized that he was sitting in bed, shirtless. His chest looked as raw and pink as it felt. And from the sensation of the sheets against his skin, he was only wearing a pair of boxers down below. Dean snuck a peek beneath the top layer. His eyes were still gummy from unconsciousness, but it was clear. Yup. No pants.

“Uh, Sammy?” Dean asked. “Why aren’t I wearing any clothes?” 

“You…got burned pretty bad. And you _are_ wearing clothes.”

“Underwear barely counts, Sam.”

His brother didn’t respond, just rolled his eyes. The motion made Dean notice the dark circles under Sam’s eyes, and the unkempt scruff around his cheeks and jaw.

“How long has it been since you slept? I mean really slept, in your own bed, not in a chair next to my sickbed?” Dean asked.

“Almost a week. I thought…I was worried that you might not make it.”

“Why? What happened to me? Was it something that Cas couldn’t fix?” 

The flash of pain on Sam’s eyes made Dean’s stomach curl.

“Sam? Where’s Cas?”

“He’s dead, Dean. I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” Dean said, feeling like he’d had his lungs torn out. “No. Not possible.”

The last clear thing he remembered had been asking Cas to stay with him for the night, and then…it all came rushing back to him. Their confessions, the implications, the kiss...and what transpired afterward. Sam had just enough time to duck out of the way before Dean twisted and puked his guts out all over the floor.

* * *

Dean insisted on seeing Cas’ body. He couldn’t believe that his best friend, his angel, was dead. Again. When Sam told him the Empty had turned Cas’ body to ash, Dean nearly punched him. Sam was rambling on about something or other, but Dean wasn’t really listening. He only caught one part of Sam’s babbling. Instead of smacking his brother in the face, Dean made Sam help him out of bed, get into his robe, and guide him out of his room and into the library. 

“It didn’t seem right to burn them. Not until you’d woken up,” Sam said, gently, still gripping Dean under the elbow.

Dean jerked out of his grasp and nearly fell face-first on the table where Cas’ trench coat lay, tenderly folded. Cas’ necktie, once blue, now mottled with deep crimson, had been set on top of the coat. Dimly, Dean registered Sam’s voice telling him that was all that was left of their angel. Dean steadied himself of the table’s edge before reaching a shaking hand out to the coat, and then the tie. The moment he touched the cold fabric, stained with blood, Dean felt a tear escape that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” Sam said, but Dean barely heard him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, Cas. Don’t be dead, please.”

But he’d said those words before, and nothing had happened then either. Dean closed his eyes, trying to not let his heart shatter into a million pieces.

* * *

Dean knew there were five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining…something, something. The typical Winchester stages of grief were denial, drinking, anger, followed by more drinking, and then doing something stupid. If it weren’t for his shiny new scars, Dean would have stayed in the denial stage for longer. But it was pretty damn hard to deny the prickles of pain that pulled across his skin whenever he moved his arms too quickly, or how easily all but the softest of his shirts chafed him now. 

Even so, it took him a week to be able to work up to facing his own reflection. It was one thing to feel the stinging pain of Cas’ death. To see the proof, literally branded into Dean’s own skin, was another thing entirely. If Dean squinted, he could possibly pretend that the marks across his shoulders and torso were tattoos. If they had been tats, they would’ve looked pretty badass. They weren’t, though, and the thought of pretending they were something else made Dean feel even sicker. 

“Tell me _exactly_ what the hell happened, Sam,” Dean had demanded, clinging onto the bundle that was Cas’ coat as if it were a life preserver and Dean were drowning. “And don’t sugarcoat it for me. Just rip the damn Band-Aid off already.”

“Okay, so you know when an angel dies, and they leave behind an imprint of sorts? Like an echo, of where their wings were?” Sam asked.

“Yeah…” Dean said. He knew what would come next. He just needed Sam to actually say it. 

“Well, that’s what happened when Cas died. Except you were holding on to him, so when his wings burned out, it didn’t leave a mark on the floor. Instead, it…it got left on you. At first I thought you were just covered in ash, like a kind of residue, but when I tried to clean it, you screamed…” Sam had trailed off then, clearly horrified by the memory of something Dean couldn’t remember.

And now Dean was left with the scarlet etchings of Castiel’s wings, from when they had flared out in the moment of his death. Dean couldn’t deny or forget that Cas was dead for anything. No amount of alcohol could make him forget this. He doubted an icepick lobotomy would do any good, at this point. So Dean forewent the denial stage of grief, and the drinking that followed. The next stage of Patented Winchester Grief was anger, but Dean had been angry ever since Mom died. (The second time, that was.) So he skipped that stage too, and went straight to the final step: doing something stupid. 

“What, aren’t you going to try and stop me?” Dean asked, half in childish attempt to taunt his brother, and half with actual concern that Sam would stop him.

“Nope. But if you’re going to do something this stupid, you might as well be smart about it,” Sam replied. 

Apparently, the “smart” thing for their reckless—or as Cas would say, insouciant—task was to contact Donatello. The man didn’t really seem to want to hand over the info, not that Dean could blame him, after the psychotic incident with Nick, but it took surprisingly little convincing for the prophet to agree to their plan. 

“I might not be able to feel things now, given that I don’t have a soul, but I still remember what grief looks like. And love,” he added, with a fleeting glimpse at Dean. 

Twelve hours, a salt circle, a sliced palm, and a few chanted words of Latin later, Dean found himself staring up at thin air, waiting with bated breath for a miracle. It had hurt to burn Cas’ tie, but they’d needed his blood for the spell. Besides, if this thing worked, Dean wouldn’t have a chance to weirdly obsess over the strip of silk. There wouldn't be a need for it.

The disturbance in the air could only be described as ominous, unless you wanted to go for “really frigging ominous.” What Cas had said about the nothingness of the Empty permeated Dean’s thoughts, as he watched the air ripple, turn into an unfathomable shade of onyx, and spread, wider and wider until it looked large enough to swallow Dean whole. 

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, the exclamation forced out of him involuntarily. Dean ignored him, body thrumming with anticipation.

“Cas?” Dean called, into the void swimming before them. “Castiel, show yourself!” 

(The phrase had worked when Lucifer possessed him, so why not now?)

What felt like an eternity later, something blindingly blue and bright materialized out of the abyss. Dean shielded his eyes against the light, and a second later, the glare reformed into a comfortingly familiar shape.  Dean took one look into those wide blue eyes, and it was like Castiel had never left. The angel was there again, bright and vivid against the dark backdrop of the Empty beyond him. Cas looked as dazed as Dean felt as the scene unfolded before them.

“Dean? Sam? What are you doing?” Cas asked, with his characteristic gravel-and-honey voice.

“What’s it look like?” Dean asked, though the gruffness of his words was overshadowed by his rapidly-growing smile.

“I don’t understand…” Castiel said, eyebrows scrunched, and _no, dammit, that wasn’t adorable. Get it together, Dean._

“You’re family, Cas. We’re busting you out of there,” Sam said.

Cas stepped forward, but the murky dark that surrounded him followed, like some bizarre, clingy shadow. It reminded Dean of the black goo the Leviathans bled, but the ooze of the Empty was thicker, tar and molasses, yet fluidly deadly all the same. The nothingness trailed behind Cas in a grotesque parody of wings. What had once enabled Castiel to fly now chained him, bound him, locked him away. 

“I would give anything to come back to you,” Cas said. “To come home. But I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dean had seen Castiel angry before, and in pain, seen him happy, seen him sad, disappointed, perplexed, seen him mourn. But Dean had never seen him cry. Here, now, the angel looked seconds away from involuntarily shedding infinite salty tears.

“Nothing’s impossible,” Dean insisted. He had to have faith, just like Castiel said. “I told you before, Cas: you, me, and Sam, we’re just better together.” 

Dean should have known that impassioned speeches were what always ended up getting your ass kicked. Villains who monologued had a higher chance of getting capped. Lovesick star-crossed teenagers who made profound revelations usually ended up dying in the next chapter. And idiots who paused rescue missions to explain themselves? Well, that meant someone wasn’t getting out of the scrape alive. 

You would think, after having his ass handed to him and his brain nearly concussed so many times, Dean’s body would have toughed up a bit, become more resilient when the bad guy _du jour _threw him across the room. But no, Dean didn’t have time to breathe, let alone think or react when a shape materialized behind Castiel. (Not that it would have done his measly, puny human self any good to try and fight back.) 

Why hadn’t they done this in an abandoned field, or hell, even the dungeon? Dean was getting _really_ tired of being knocked across the stupid map table. When his vision cleared, Dean could just make out Sam’s limp form on the other side of the war room, but at least his little brother appeared to be conscious and breathing. Across from them, Castiel was grappling with what looked like an anthropomorphic blob, kind of like a life-sized Flubber gone dark side. It was the Shadow of the Empty, it had to be. What else could be trying to stop Castiel from coming back from the dead (again)?

With shaky limbs, Dean made himself crawl away, towards the trench coat he carried with him everywhere. This wasn’t the pale copy that Castiel’s form wore in death; this was the real deal, still smelling faintly of ozone and a hundred thousand memories and so, so distinctly _Cas_.  Dean scrambled, clumsily, with the folds of fabric until his hand met smooth metal. He’d never wanted to touch the damned thing again, let alone aim to use it, but he had no choice now. The Shadow of the Empty wasn’t going to let Cas go. The barely-functioning rational side of Dean’s brain didn’t understand the logic behind his next move, but the rest of him, overstimulated with adrenaline, screamed its approval. 

Despite being a celestial being and a primordial being, respectively, Cas and the Shadow both halted their fight at the sound of the Equalizer’s hammer being drawn back. The Shadow had no expression, given that it looked more like humanoid liquid licorice than anything else, but not Cas. No, the angel took one look at Dean, and the naked terror in his face was almost enough to make Dean reconsider. Almost. 

“Dean—” 

“Let him go,” Dean demanded, staring straight into where the Shadow‘s eyes should have been, if its face hadn’t been a creepy blank slate. 

The Shadow inclined its head, as if to say “or what?”

“Let Cas go, or I’ll shoot. I know, ordinary guns won’t put a dent in you, but this? This is no ordinary weapon. It’s capable of killing Chuck himself. I’d wager it could kill you too. Wanna see if it works?”

But before Dean could get a chance to test his admittedly absurd theory, the Shadow surged forward.  It wrapped a cold appendage against Dean’s windpipe in a vice-like grip, and Dean dropped the gun, hands scrabbling to free himself. His fingers found no purchase; how could he fight against the all-powerful, oxymoronic embodiment of nothingness? And that was it, lights out, strangled by the monster that held his angel captive, but then—

_BANG!_

The strangling pressure against Dean’s throat was released. A hole appeared where the Shadow’s chest should have been. The writhing tendrils of its essence froze, fractured, and then crumbled into dust, before being drawn away, back into the gaping maw that led to the unknown of the Empty.

In the corner of his eye, Dean saw Castiel sway. He still held the Equalizer, arm outstretched but no longer steady. An accursed spot was blooming on Cas’ chest, too. Except this time, instead of arterial red, the wound leaked black ichor. Castiel fell to his knees, and the obsidian substance stained his shirt, spreading to his coat with no heed to gravity. And then Castiel was robed all in raven-black, a shadowy parallel of the angel Dean knew and loved.

“Cas?” he whispered. 

The angel met his gaze. Cas' eyes, at least, were still mercifully blue. They flared once, with angelic grace, as Castiel spoke his last. 

“Goodbye, Dean,” he said. Then the pitch-black, impenetrable chasm gathered around Castiel, perversely tender, and he was swept away.

Not even the cold shock of the bunker’s floor against Dean’s knees was enough to jolt him back into reality. Sam shook his shoulders, and Dean could see his brother’s mouth moving, frantically, like he was yelling something, but the only thing Dean could hear was something like wind, whispering all around him. It dawned on him that the rushing sound of his own blood, pumping furiously, before a dark curtain closed in front of Dean’s eyes, and he willingly succumbed to unconsciousness. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I'm being as shitty to TFW as the actual show writers...


	5. Still Was a Blind Man/Madman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Change of plans,” a voice interrupted. Great. Death again.
> 
> “You couldn’t have given me five minutes?” I asked.

* * *

“You know, at this point, I’m pretty sure the universe is making up new rules on the go, each time you or the Winchesters do something monumentally stupid.” 

I had half-expected the mocking voice of the Shadow, but instead was greeted by the cool, sardonic voice of Death herself. 

“How am I here?” I asked her, unable to think of anything else to say. I scrubbed my hand against my chest, right in the place where I had been shot. There was nothing there to indicate I had used the Equalizer. 

“Where else would you go?” Billie asked, red lips pursed in disapproval.

“I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m asking you,” I snapped. It seemed to amuse her.

“You can’t kill what’s already dead—that being you, of course,” Bille said. “Technically, you can’t kill the Shadow of the Empty, either. You can’t kill nothingness, Castiel. The universe is made up of checks and balances, equal and opposite reactions. Without nothing, there couldn’t be anything.”

“I’m not interested in a lesson on metaphysics, thank you,” I said, polite despite my irritated bitterness. I had been so close to escaping, and now not only was I here, again, in the Empty, but I was being lectured by Death like I was an ignorant child. Perhaps I was, though, from her perspective. 

“You ever hear the phrase, ‘it’s the thought that counts’?” she asked me. 

“Yes. I heard that it was a ‘bunch of bull,’” I said. Billie smirked at my use of air quotes. 

“Let me guess, that’s a Winchester-ism? They’re not entirely wrong, at least there. But intention matters. You intended to end the Shadow. And just like when you stabbed me—literally—in the back to renege on my deal with the Winchesters, there are cosmic consequences to this.” 

“My deal with the Empty was fulfilled,” I protested, my confusion increasing my defensiveness. “I made no promises to stay. Technically.” 

“I don’t mean it like that,” Billie said. 

“Then how _do_ you mean it?” I growled. Billie sighed, impatient. 

“When Dean killed the previous incarnation of Death, the next reaper to die took his place.”

“You,” I said, impatiently. I knew this story already. 

“Me,” Billie agreed. “It’s the same principle here: the Empty needs a guardian, and you just shot it. Except while the universe could function for a while without a capital-D Death, that’s not the case here.” 

“Whatever it is you’re trying to say, just say it,” I said, completely fed up at this point with whatever lesson Billie was trying to teach me, a lesson I didn’t care to learn. 

“You killed the Shadow of the Empty, so now you have to take its place.”

“Come again?” I said, Billie’s words echoing around me, though the instant replay didn’t clarify anything. 

“This whole domain—it’s volatile, without a being of power to maintain balance,” Billie explained. 

“No, that part I understand,” I said, beginning to pace back and forth. “What I don’t get is how I could take the place of an ancient cosmic being. I’m just…an angel, and barely one at that.” 

I stopped my pacing, hands held out to my sides in a gesture of surrender. 

“Right. Just an angel who possesses their own vessel, an angel who has been human, an angel who experienced death at least five times—and was returned to the land of the living again and again. Not to mention when you helped stop an Apocalypse, or nearly started one yourself. You’ve been to Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, an alternate universe, and the Empty. Don’t underestimate yourself, Castiel. You’re not insignificant, no matter who or what has made you feel that way in the past.” 

“So…I’m the Empty’s guardian?” I asked, resignedly accepting both my new fate and the truth in Billie’s statement. 

“Try not to screw it up,” Death said. I blinked, and she was gone.

* * *

Gone, but not alone, would perhaps be the better phrase. I didn’t want to be the new “friendly, neighborhood cosmic entity.” Want had nothing to do with it. 

I had felt the change within me from the moment I had left the Men of Letters bunker for the final time. Something immeasurable coursed through me, binding itself to me and weaving its essence with mine. Unlike the time the Shadow had killed me, the sensations didn’t fill me with dread. Fear, perhaps, but it was the type of fear one has before a new beginning. I thought I had reached my end, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Before, the Empty was simply that: empty. Nothing. Blank space. This time, I could sense the other beings that rested here, sleeping eternally. Demons and angels, demigods, former allies and foes, my brothers and sisters. They all slept.  All the beings, but one. With a thought, I dissolved, blended into the void, and re-formed in a new space. He didn’t hear me approach, but he noticed my presence nonetheless. 

“Castiel?” he asked, and instantly I was wrapped up in my son’s embrace. 

The last time we had met, Jack had questioned his ability to love, or even to feel. I doubted that he lacked those capabilities now. Soul or no, the boy before me was Jack in his truest form: kind and powerful, but with a heart of gold. 

“I missed you,” Jack murmured, against the folds of my coat, and I instinctively gripped him tighter.

“I think that’s my line,” I said, and wonder of wonders, my boy laughed. I pulled away just enough to look at him, with what I knew was a ridiculous, gummy smile on my face.

“You’ve changed,” Jack said, in that bland way of his, purely observational with no judgement. 

“I died,” I said. “Twice, I think.”

“No, not that,” Jack said, gesturing at my vessel. 

Only then did I notice how my signature outfit had changed: each article of my clothing was identical to what I had worn in life, except that the colors were gone. Everything was black. The only thing missing was my tie, and I couldn’t figure out where it had gone. But beneath it all, I was still me.

“I’m the Guardian of the Empty, now,” I explained, and my voice rang with truth. Something clicked into place, and I felt as though a previously-stalled wheel had begun to turn again. Jack, however, didn’t notice any of this. 

“Is that good?” he asked, which such innocent curiosity. 

I laughed. “It’s the best we could hope for, I think.” 

“Then…good,” Jack said, with his little half-smile. “Castiel, what happens now?” 

“For you?” I asked. 

“Well, yes and no. Right after I died, when I woke up here, Billie said something—”

“Change of plans,” a voice interrupted. Great. Death again. 

“You couldn’t have given me five minutes?” I asked. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, time doesn’t exist here. Not in the way it does on Earth.” 

“Yes, I had gathered that, given that this is not only my third trip to the Empty, but that this entire place is my responsibility,” I said, sardonically. 

“Look,” Billie said, in a way I assume was meant to try and placate me, “You wanna jump into your new job? Go ahead. But beyond here, the world is still ending.”

“What do you care? You’re Death, one of the proverbial Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Kind of thought the end of the world would be your thing,” I shot back. 

“If the universe ends, then so do I. There will be _nothing_ left. Except you. Is that what you want?” Billie demanded, with such vigor that I began to feel an inkling of respect for her. For some time, I had despised her, given her personal vendetta against the Winchesters. I had to hand it to her though: she was damn good at her job. 

“Fine,” I sighed. “I assume you have some kind of plan? Or at least an idea of one?” 

Billie nodded. 

“How much time has passed, since I left the Winchesters?”

“A couple of days,” Billie answered. 

“Good,” I said, gears turning in my head. 

“Castiel—”

“Just give me a moment,” I said, mentally shoving her aside, and to my complete astonishment, she departed us. 

“What was that?” Jack asked. He’d been silent, up until now, but I hadn’t forgotten him. 

“This is my realm,” I explained. “I can keep her out, for now.” 

“Does that mean you can send me back?” 

If I hadn’t already been heartbroken, Jack’s hopefulness then would have broken me. 

“Yes,” I said, sadly.

“But you’re not going to,” Jack said, ever intuitive. 

“You deserved a longer life that you had. A better one. But if I release you from the Empty, Chuck will just send you back. It’s not safe for you, Jack.” 

“I don’t care,” he said, chin jutting out defiantly, just like a Winchester. 

“I do,” I said. “I’ve failed you too many times before now. I won’t do it again. Rest, now. Please.” 

I had no more ability to make Jack sleep than the Shadow could have made me sleep. All I had was a lifetime (for Jack, anyway) of being both a father-figure and a friend. For once, it—I—was enough. 

“You’ll watch over me, right Cas?” Jack asked, in a tone uncannily like a real two-year old human. 

“Always,” I promised, drawing Jack to me once more, to assuage his worries. 

He put his arms around me, content to be comforted and held for just a little while longer. Then he broke away, standing tall, and gave me a short, perfunctory nod. _So brave_, I thought, though I didn’t voice it. Jack closed his eyes, and let the emptiness guide him down. Finally, he rested. Finally, he was at peace. 

* * *

I was bound to the Empty, though not as I had been when I was just an angel. I could walk amongst the Earth’s inhabitants, much like the Shadow had once invaded Heaven, but not for too long. I was tempted to go back and visit the Winchesters, to let them know of my fate, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had once planned on letting them live out their lives; shouldn’t I do the same now? 

But, alas, they were still my weakness, even with the new power I possessed. I couldn’t resist the temptation to check on them. What I found horrified me. 

Sam had thrown himself into hunting, with a fervor that would have put a newly-widowed John Winchester to shame. Had I not the absolute certainty of knowing it was Sam, I don’t think I would have recognized him. I don’t think he even recognized himself. And the worst of it was that he accepted it. He accepted what the End turned him into, and he didn’t care. Sam still had a soul, but he was as empty inside as the time he had lost it. 

Dean was worse. He continued to hunt with Sam, but he only went through the motions. The moment he believed he was alone, he stopped pretending. Dean, once so stubborn that he resisted the tortures of Hell for thirty years, had given up. 

I gathered, fairly quickly, that it wasn’t entirely my death alone that had broken him. I was just the last straw in an ever-increasing series of blows. After losing his mother for a second time, nearly murdering a boy who viewed him as a father, the truth of Chuck’s manipulation, and then my departure—it was all too much for one soul to bear. 

“He was your best friend, Dean,” Sam had told him. “It’s okay to…not be okay. I miss him too.” 

The old Dean might have socked Sam in the face, then and there. He would have at least glared daggers at his brother. Dean did neither of those things. Instead, he rolled over, head pillowed on top of my old trench coat, and waited for Sam to leave him alone. 

One night, as Dean was dreaming fitfully, I realized that maybe I could still protect him, somehow, without manifesting myself. I still retained some of my angelic abilities (and restored  some others, like my previously-flightless wings). Entering Dean’s dreams was easier than it had ever been, not in the least because I think this time, he welcomed it. 

Dean dreamed of many things, some terrible, some wonderful. I tried to give him what I could to help. Nothing truly eased him, though. He went through his waking days on autopilot, going through the motions but never really allowing himself to feel. 

“Do you even care, Dean? About any of this? Jeez, it’s like you _want_ it all to end,” Sam accused. 

“Maybe I do,” Dean said, under his breath, low enough for Sam to pretend not to hear, but not me. 

That night, when he dreamed, I appeared to him. I allowed him to believe I was just another extension of his subconscious, to not traumatize him further, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake him out of his stupor. There was only one thing left for me to do. I took a deep breath, and made the plunge. 

* * *


	6. When I'm Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t stop,” he breathed, when I paused to admire his flushed cheeks and lust-blown pupils. And when he asked like that, how could I refuse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell from the chapter summary...some smut ahead...

* * *

In the depths of Dean’s subconscious, we were blessed with two things: one, the surety that we wouldn’t be disturbed, and two, the complete lack of inhibition. Dean didn’t even have to vocalize his desires; I could sense them and act upon them instinctively. But the sounds he made as I explored him were so lovely, I couldn’t deny him the opportunity to let them loose. 

My lips mapped over every blemish my broken wings had ingrained into his skin. At first, he merely relaxed into my touch, but when my tongue swiped over one dusky nipple, he squirmed in pleasure beneath me. I nipped at it, laving the bud into a peak, then treated the other to the same reverence. Dean’s fingers threaded through my hair, and he breathed out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like my name. 

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, when I paused to admire his flushed cheeks and lust-blown pupils. And when he asked like that, how could I refuse?

A basal, carnal part of me craved for Dean to reciprocate my touch. The thought of him, kneeling between my legs, or with his calloused hand curled around my member, or his body wrapped up behind me, moving against me and within me, made me tremble. Even the idea of him tracing patterns into the bare skin of my vessel filled me with ecstasy. But this wasn’t about me. It never had been. This, all of it, was for Dean. 

We had the time, so I took it, caressing and kissing every place I could reach. I was torn with the desire to pleasure Dean in every place and every way imaginable. He, however, was human; he wasn’t capable of patience the way I was.

“Please, Cas,” he begged, and I was distracted enough to stop, if only for a moment.

“Please, what, Dean?” I asked, surprised to find that my voice came out huskier than usual. “What is it you want?”

“You,” he said. 

“You have me,” I replied. 

“More,” he pleaded. 

“Anything you want,” I promised. 

His cock throbbed with every heartbeat. It stood proud, straining up from his curly patch of hair, straining to his navel. I scratched my nails through the coarse strands near his base, and Dean shivered. I cupped his balls with my other hand, and Dean whimpered. A bead of pre-come pearled at his tip, and I yielded to the impulse to lean down and taste it. Dean moaned. 

He was a beautiful mess of complimentary opposites: velvety smooth over unyielding hardness. I lapped at him, root to stem, until he writhed, and then I enveloped him with my mouth. He bucked into the wet warmth, unable to resist, and I planted my forearm against his pelvis to steady him. My tongue whorled as I bobbed, driving Dean mad. His hips twitched in involuntary thrusts, even as I pinned him. Finally, his flavor changed, on the precipice of spilling over, and I slowed my ministrations. 

“Why’d you stop, Cas, please don’t stop, _please_,” he whined. 

“Dean, look at me,” I ordered. He obeyed, with Herculean effort. 

“Cas,” he whimpered.

“Do you want more?” I asked. His eyelids fluttered with the strain of staying open.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice as hoarse as if he had just been the one to go down on me. 

“What do you want? Tell me, Dean.” 

“Everything,” he said.

“Everything,” I agreed, and surged up to kiss him. 

He opened to me slowly, but willingly. I don’t know if he had ever given himself over like this to anyone before me; selfishly, I wished to be the first. My fingers guided and teased, stroking and stretching, until I hit the sweet spot inside, and he keened. 

“Now,” he demanded, and the word enthralled me. 

I slid in to him, not as fast as he would have liked, if the way his fingers dug into the muscles of my backside were any indication. I bottomed out, reveling in the heat of him surrounding me, clenching around me. We could have spent an eternity like that, locked together, simply holding one another. I peppered his sweat-laden brow with kisses, then his freckled cheeks, then his jaw, anywhere I could reach. By the time I dragged my teeth against the tenderness of his neck, Dean was squirming again, impatient. 

I pulled back, then pushed forward, forcing my motions to be deliberate, aided only by my own pre-come, and what Dean called my “mojo.” My tip dragged across that bundle of nerves inside him, and Dean bucked against me, silently goading me to move faster. Contrarily, I pulled back excruciatingly slow, and just as Dean opened his mouth to demand more, I drove forward. Dean’s eyes rolled back, and the floodgates within him opened. Before long, I felt a pull at the base of my spine, felt myself stiffen impossibly further, and knew that I couldn’t last for much longer. 

“Dean,” I panted. “Come for me, my love.” 

He flowed over and splashed between us, shuddering with the force of his climax, and I chased my own peak, thrusting faster and faster until neither of us could take more. I spilled within him, and his walls tightened, drawing out my seed with juddering momentum. 

Afterward, when I felt him relax next to me, I longed to stay with him. I knew, just like the first time I had held him through the night, that the moment couldn’t last. No amount of my recently-received cosmic power could change that. But there were other things I could do. Screw Billie’s plan. It was time I took matters into my own hands.

“Dean?” I asked, voice soft.

“Yeah?” he said, gruffly.

“If there was anything you could do to save the ones you loved...would you do it?” I asked, my words hesitant.

“You know I would,” Dean whispered.

“Even if it cost you everything?”

“That’s what you do for family, Cas. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I murmured against the crown of his head. “I’ll keep you safe, Dean. You and Sam. I promise.”

I didn’t know until then that I could cry in this form.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can't keep away from the angst. Whoops.


	7. Wayward Son(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enough,” I said, voice resonating with power. “I made up my mind long ago.”

* * *

After quite literally residing in a blank void, the cold and blustery November day was brighter than a flaming comet. I marveled in the rich autumn hues of the leaves, even as they were dying, and the mellow tones of passerby's clothing. Remnants of holiday decorations clung to porches, mailboxes, even yards, but not even their macabre nature could bring me down. I was amongst humans, and their magnificent capacity for imagination. The fact that their All Hallow’s Eve celebrations had morphed into a candy-giving, costume-wearing extravaganza delighted me. The distant memory of a small town, terrorized by the demon Samhain, actually brought a faint smile to my lips: it was then that I had first confessed to Dean that I had doubts; that I was not, as he said, a hammer. 

I had no worries that Heaven or Hell would interrupt me. One perk of inheriting (or stealing, depending on how you saw it) the Shadow of the Empty’s primordial powers was that I could hide, extremely effectively, from any being in creation, until such time as I chose to reveal myself. This trip, however, was not for reconnaissance. I had a mission, and my goal was the only thing that compelled me to knock on the door of the cheery little house in front of me, as yet unmarred by pain and tragedy. 

The sight of the young woman who opened the door took my breath away. Mary, as I had known her, had been strong and determined and beautiful, and this version of her was no different. Oh, but to see her now, in her youth. Not exactly innocent, not by any means sheltered from the horrors of the world, but yet filled with boundless hope. I think if my heart were capable of breaking further, it might have done so in that moment, to see her like this. Whatever heart I had left had already been torn beyond repair.

“Mary Winchester?” I asked, grateful that my voice was steady. 

“Yes?”

I flashed the badge Dean had once made for me. I had kept it, after all this time. I think he would have been proud that my badge was right-side up, this time, but even if he were here beside me, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it. I knew that the badge was still wrong for this era. Mary only got a glimpse of the the FBI insignia before I pocketed the badge again.

“May I come in? It’s important, and best we not speak of it out here.” 

“Of course,” she said, and graciously but cautiously ushered me inside. 

I had chosen my moment well; both the little Winchesters were asleep. Fortunately, Dean was still young enough to need naps, and Sam was an infant. From what I understood, babies spent the majority of their time sleeping. 

“Please sit, Agent—?”

“Novak,” I supplied, seating myself on proffered couch. Perhaps this whole endeavor was making me sentimental. Jimmy would be about ten years old here. I hadn’t yet ruined his life. My vessel, my body, still resembled his, even though it was mine now. But Mary was looking at me expectantly, and I couldn’t get lost in my guilt now. 

“I’m…tracking someone, and I have reason to believe that he may be here, in Lawrence. Or he will be, soon enough,” I said. Mary nodded, gravely, and I plowed on, unwilling to draw it out. “He was last seen in this area around ten years ago. He’s responsible for the death of a farmer named Whitshire, among countless others. Including your parents.” 

Mary gripped the arm of the loveseat so tightly that her knuckles stood out white against her pale skin. 

“His name is Azazel,” I continued, as if I were oblivious to her distress. “But you know him as a yellow-eyed demon.”

“Who are you?” Mary demanded in a fierce whisper. 

“A friend,” I said, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Are you a hunter?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then, _exactly_?” 

Her tone was meant to be furious, authoritative, I am sure, but she was so reminiscent of both her older self, and her eldest son, that I could feel my eyes soften with nostalgia. 

“Mary…when you put your sons to bed at night, what do you tell them?”

The apparent non-sequitur shocked her into answering.

“That angels are watching over them,” she said. “What does this have to do with anything?”

I said nothing, but cocked one eyebrow, silently counting the seconds ticking away on the kitchen clock. And then it hit her.

“No. No, that’s not possible,” she said. The sense of déjà vu nearly made me laugh aloud. 

“Have faith,” I said, as calmly as possible, in the same tone one might use with an injured animal. 

Either I was more persuasive than I’d realized, or Mary’s hunter instincts were rusty, for I was able to approach her closely enough to lay two fingers on her forehead. She gasped as I showed her the recollection of my past, not through my impeccable angelic vision, but through Dean’s eyes. He’d dreamed of the night we first met, face to face, enough times for me to get the details exactly right. 

_ Sparks flew and thunder boomed.  _

_ “I’m the one who gripped you tight, and raised you from perdition.”  _

(If I had known then, how monumentally profound my words would be, would I have chosen the same ones, I wonder?)

_ “Who are you?”  _

_ “Castiel.”  _

_ “Yeah, I figured that much. I mean *what* are you?”  _

_ “I’m an Angel of the Lord.”  _

_ “Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.”  _

_ Great shadowy outlines appeared behind my vessel, as I spread my wings and let Dean see the proof with his own eyes.  _

Mary pulled herself together quickly.

“That was you?” she asked. 

Her eyes roamed across my vessel, and I knew that she was making the connection between my appearance in Dean’s memory to my visage now. The trench coat was similar, at least, even if the color was wrong. 

“Yes. A past version, at least,” I admitted.

“And that man—he’s a hunter, isn’t he? I…I met him, once.” 

“Yes,” I repeated. “But if I am successful tonight, he never will be.” 

I didn’t give Mary time to ask questions, though I knew they were on the tip of her tongue.

“I first met him when I pulled him from Hell. He’s not a bad man—quite the opposite, in fact. He only went because he traded his soul to save his brother’s life. I’m sure you can understand what would compel someone to make that kind of deal,” I said, fixing her with a significant look.

“Am I going to hell?” she asked, troubled. 

“No. It’s something far worse, I’m afraid,” I said, and barely paused between my next train of thought. “You recalled meeting the man I showed you once before.”

“Ten years ago,” Mary confirmed. 

“He told you something, something important. About your future. Do you remember what it was?”

Mary’s outward expression didn’t change, save from the blood rushing from her cheeks. She seemed so small in that moment. 

“November 2nd, 1983,” she whispered. “That’s today.” 

“What did the man tell you, Mary?” I prompted.

“To not get out of bed, no matter what I heard. He begged me. But—”

“Tonight, if you hear the baby stirring, don’t go to him,” I implored her.

“Why? What’s going to happen to Sammy?” Mary asked, maternal instincts putting her on high alert. 

“Nothing, if you do as I tell you. I’ll keep him safe. Dean, too,” I vowed, and I know my eyes were feverish with conviction. 

“This is…insane.”

“Mary, please. If you get out of bed tonight, you will die, and your sons will be cursed. They will grow up with the broken shell of a man who’s lost the love of his life, obsessed with hunting the thing that killed her. Everything you don’t want for your children will come true.”

“You mean they’ll be hunters?” she asked, aghast. 

“Yes. They will fight, and they will die. And they’ll save the world. But they’ll never be done, not really. They’ll never have peace.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So that you will understand,” I said. “Please, do as I say. Save your family. Let me worry about the rest.”

* * *

“I’m curious,” a voice said. “Did you really expect that to work?”

I didn’t turn away from my surveillance of the Winchesters’ home. 

“It’s all a story to you, Chuck. Why not give me a chance to write my own chapter?” I said, as dryly as possible. Through my peripheral vision, the writer moved closer, the both of us invisible to the human eye.

“You do realize that even if Mary doesn’t die, the story won’t change that much,” Chuck said, though whether he was taunting me, or trying to reason with me, I didn’t know or care.

“Wait and see,” was my cryptic response. 

It intrigued him enough to stay, and together we watched as John and Mary put their children to bed. John meandered back down the stairs, like the first time around, and Mary laid her head upon her pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut, like she could will herself to fall asleep. I glanced at the clock, tracking the movement of the second hand with obvious watchfulness.

“I see it now,” Chuck said, as the minutes approached ten past the hour. “You think that by killing Azazel, before he can infect Sam with demon blood, you can stop the Apocalypse. You think this will save Sam and Dean.” 

“Won’t it?”

“Michael and Lucifer are still out there. Are you planning on taking them off the board, too?” 

“No.”

“Then what’s to stop them?” Chuck asked, for once allowing his incredulity to show.

“You.” 

“And why would I do that?”

"For the story," I said, and I laid my plans bare. " If Sam and Dean never become hunters, Dean never goes to Hell. I never rescue him. I never…He never knows me. He and Sam will live normal, ordinary lives, and I? I will never be a part of it. They will never know what could have been. But I will. I’ll never forget.” 

“You would do that? You would give it all up, to save them?” Chuck asked me. His soft blue eyes shone with emotion. I wanted to believe that what he felt was sincere.

“Haven’t I already? A thousand times over?” I asked. 

“Are you sure, Castiel? Think of everything you would lose,” Chuck said, snapping his fingers before I could stop him. 

Every happy moment I had ever witnessed with the Winchesters assaulted my mind, blending and whirling together like a montage from one of the sappy novels Metatron had once imparted unto me.

“Enough,” I said, voice resonating with power. “I made up my mind long ago.” 

I turned away from my absentee father and strode into Sam Winchester’s nursery. 

Yellow eyes glowed sinister and cruel in the moonlight. Baby Sam fussed. 

Azazel tried to force me away, use his power to pin me to the wall, but his demonic gifts had no effect on me. The energy simply passed through me, like it had traveled not through my vessel, but through a void. 

I stretched out a hand. Azazel shuddered as my palm met his temple, and then he was no more. 

“It’s done,” I said, not to the child lying in the crib before me, nor to the empty room. I knew Chuck would hear, and I knew he was satisfied—I could feel it. 

And so I departed, to begin my eternal vigil, forever alone in my empty realm. The world kept turning. Chuck watched the story unfold. I had succeeded; I had unwritten The End. But my victory was hollow, for I had finally hanged myself on freedom's rope.

* * *


	8. Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're my family."

* * *

** Epilogue **

His soul was as pure and bright as I had known it to be in life. This time, he had lived a long time before ascending to paradise. Here, now though, he appeared much as he did the last time we had been together on Earth; and while his body still showed his forty years, he was lighter somehow. Gone were the feathery burns from my dying wings, the scars from knives and guns and spears, the warding I had once carved into his ribs, even the anti-possession tattoo upon his chest. The skin around his eyes still crinkled when he smiled. He was, undoubtably, unequivocally, Dean, even if he wasn’t _my_ Dean. But I would always be his. 

Sam, too, was free from the burdens and physical tolls of a hunter’s life. I knew, with the conviction of a cosmic entity, that it wouldn’t be long before Sam’s soul joined Dean’s as well. Even after civilian lives, they would still end up sharing their own personal heaven. For now, though, it was only Dean here, surrounded by his happiest moments. 

I had intended to stay hidden, as I had so many times before. I had only wanted to watch over him, one more time. Someone must have had other plans. One moment, Dean was laughing at a long-forgotten joke, and the next, he turned around, staring straight at me. He shouldn’t have been able to see me, but yet he did.

Our surroundings dissolved and reformed, and we were no longer in the Winchesters’ living room, but an empty field, alone save for the Impala. Of course, it was the Impala. I think, aside from Sam, that car was the thing Dean treasured most.

“I know you,” he said. Internally, I had a moment of panic: He shouldn’t have remembered me. If I had done my job correctly, he wouldn’t know me. Had I failed him, once again?

“I know you from somewhere,” Dean repeated. “Don’t I?” 

“In another life,” I responded. 

Dean stepped closer, and after being separated for so long, I couldn’t stop him from closing thedistance between us. His hand gripped my shoulder, in the very place I had once left the imprint of my vessel’s palm. With that single touch, it all came flooding back to him. Dean broke the dam of his own accord, of his own sheer force of will. 

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean,” I said, with my first smile in decades, heavy-hearted though it was. “Dean, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been able to remember, I—"

“Shut up,” he said, but without any real anger, and then he was kissing me. 

“I can’t believe I ever forgot you, Cas. And I can’t believe that you did that. For me.”

“You’re my family, Dean. You taught me how much that matters,” I said. 

Dean clung to me, and I to him, as though we were both afraid that the other would disappear. I would have to tell him eventually that I couldn’t stay with him, here in Heaven. Sooner or later, I would have to return to the Empty and my post as its guardian, and I couldn’t bring Dean back there with me to that awful place. All that could wait, though. 

Even though I had seen it all already from afar, I listened as Dean shared his second life’s story with me. Hearing it in his own words was a gift and a curse wrapped up as one, made all the more bittersweet by the fact that I hadn’t been a part of it. He talked for so long that his paradise was joined by another soul. Even Dean could feel the ripple of energy when it happened. 

“Disturbance in the Force?” he asked, grinning at me.

“I don’t understand that reference,” I intoned, not because it was the truth, but because I knew it would delight him to hear it again.

“Is that…?” Dean asked, peering off into the distance, as a familiar shaggy-haired figure approached us. 

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go say hello to your brother.” 

Dean took my hand, and everything was whole again.

* * *

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you, thank you, thank you, for sticking through to the end. You seriously have no idea how much it means to me that someone read this. :)


End file.
